


What happens at banquet, stays in banquet

by Coffeeresonance



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drunkenness, Grand Prix Final, M/M, bad dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:02:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8973325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffeeresonance/pseuds/Coffeeresonance
Summary: That was how Viktor Nikiforov, Russian skating representative and five-time International Grand Prix Finals champion, found himself dancing with a tipsy man at an exclusive, well respected gala tailored for the best in the world. What went down at last season's Grand Prix Final Banquet. Yuuri makes mistakes that don't end up as mistakes.





	

The Grand Prix Final Banquet has always been Viktor’s least favorite aspect of the international tournament. Being stuck in stuffy suits and strained smiles after a competition was not his idea of celebration, much less relaxation. In addition, it was getting harder to enjoy the festivities as more and more reporters, fans and competitors insisted on crowding around the champion himself, stealing his hard earned oxygen and space. The air around Viktor became suffocating and the skater cursed silently as he eyed the drink table on the other side of the room. He struggled to push through the crowd, politely turning down interviews and fans with a practiced gesture and upturned lips that betrayed his mild sense of annoyance. 

The open space near the drink table was a godsend to Viktor. As he swirled the champagne around his glass, he was left to survey the banquet hall in peace. To his surprise, the first thing that caught his eye in the hall was a young man with blonde hair and a rebellious, teenage scowl. Viktor’s weary brain fumbled for a few seconds to identify the face to a name. Yuri Plisetsky. Russia’s youngest and brightest. Truly a force to be reckoned with, even moreso when he makes his senior debut next year. If Viktor was a hurricane on the rink, Plisetsky is an ambitious, merciless tornado, conquering his opponents with complex step sequences and heaven skimming jumps. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments and the adolescent quickly flicks his eyes downcast, the slightest of pinks dusting his ears. Viktor admired from afar, knowing that one day the name Nikiforov will slowly deteriorate from households through time and subtly replaced with Plisetsky. Just as Viktor was about to continue his mental scan around the room, a small hiccup from behind interrupted his thoughts. 

Behind him was, for lack of a better term, a drunken mess. Champagne glasses littered the table and floor, some on their sides and leaking alcohol haphazardly. The man in question had flared runny nostrils and disheveled black hair, accompanied by a deep, cherry flush overwhelming his face and ears. His eyes were bloodshot and moist, most likely the aftereffect of tears and intoxication. As Viktor turned to approach the man, he made out the strong, but not unpleasant, scent of sweat and cologne. 

“Who does that asshole think he is, huh?” Viktor flinched at the sudden bark from the drunk, who was glaring ahead, bearing teeth and a deep frown. The taller man followed his gaze and identified his object of ridicule: the teenage spitfire Yuri Plisetsky. 

“Oh, look at me! I can land all my jumps! Quads? Yes more please! I would like a second helping for my senior debut!” a bad falsetto voice shouted and Viktor had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the poor man’s misery. “I bet without skates he’s nothing. Nada. Yesterday’s news. It’s about time that I prove myself that bathroom stalking jerk!” He slams his glass on the table, rattling and spilling the few remaining drinks on it. “ In fact, I’ll prove it to anyone who thinks their feet are fancier than mine.” The threat would’ve been more effective if loud hiccups didn’t puncture every other syllable, in tangent with his labored breathing.

A sudden but dull pain was inflicted upon Viktor’s ribs and he glanced amusingly at the other man, who had his elbow jutted out away from his torso. “I’m gonna do it, yeah? Don’t try and stop me, Mr. Five-Time World Champion. Unless you think you think you can take on the Hot Feet of Hassetsu?” He laughed, hysterical and untamed. For reasons he can’t explain, Viktor’s first instinct was to take the man back to his hotel and ensure his security from surely embarrassing drunken antics and the inevitable morning hangover. Instead, he gives the man a push forward and adds with a smirk, “Go for it, tiger.” His companion gives a sharp smile and a thumbs up, managing to look pathetic yet purposeful at the same time.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Viktor breathes as the stranger shuffles away, undoing his tie and dragging the bottle of champagne away from its allotted table.

.--. .-.. . .- ... . / .... . .-.. .--. / -.-- ..- .-. .. / -.- .- - ... ..- -.- ..

What ensued was a flurry of limbs, clothes and camera flashes that Viktor dared not involve himself in. At least, not initially. After physically dragging a stubborn Plisetsky onto the now empty dance floor, Yuuri proceeded to buck, slide and cavort his counterpart into joining him. The two bodies were furiously and passionately prancing, trying to futilely outdo one another as no one was keeping score. Watching them dance reminded Viktor of what made the Japanese skater stand out to him so. Even in a drunken stupor, his footwork remained light and graceful, each leg prancing around the other carelessly. While infamous for his flubbed jumps, Katsuki’s breath-stealing step sequences persist as a continuous strong point both on and off the ice. His attempted breakdancing, on the other hand, forced Viktor to blush and holler, feeling enthralled yet embarrassed for the fumbling Asian.

That was when things started to go South. Viktor did not know how or why the Strip Pole was installed, but he absolutely blamed the sexual conduit himself, Christophe Giacometti. Viktor shared the podium with the talented skater earlier that week, admitting that his romantic and intimate style is charming and contagious in competition and off. However, Chris was the last thing on Viktor’s mind as Yuuri masterfully navigated the metal bar, pants long abandoned on the area of floor beside him. He heard the shutter sound of a camera to his left and quickly fumbled for his own phone, watching thigh muscles constrict and contract with strain. Viktor realised that he was hypnotised by the other man’s performance, unable to draw his eyes away long enough to open the camera app on his phone. When the Swiss man removed his outerwear and revealed bare chest and abs, Yuuri followed suit and soon both men were in nothing but their briefs. The two performed an intoxicated dance, with Yuuri performing incredible stunts of upper and lower body strength. As Katsuki supported the other male’s weight with nothing but his upper body, Viktor had to mentally kick himself (not for the first time that night) for the desire to be in Chris’ place instead of recording from the sidelines. 

.--. .-.. . .- ... . / .... . .-.. .--. / ...- .. -.-. - --- .-. / -. .. -.- .. ..-. --- .-. --- ...-

 

Viktor was swiping through his photo album when he was graced by the presence of none other than Yuuri Katsuki himself. His unbuttoned dress shirt was lazily thrown over his exposed torso, tie knotted loosely and limped lopsided on the popped collar. The Japanese looked even worse than when he started, breathing ragged and dripping with sweat. However, the red, cheshire grin he wore forbade any signs of fatigue in the skater, giving him an almost maniacal look.

“We meet again, Mr. World Champion,” Yuuri slurred with a long drawl, as if tasting his own words on his tongue.

“Indeed we do, Hot Feet,” came Viktor’s reply, spilling with mirth. “That was quite a performance you put on.”

Yuri scoffed. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” He knelt on his knee and caressed the Russian’s hand, who failed to hide the grin spreading across his face. “May I have this next dance?”

That was how Viktor Nikiforov, Russian skating representative and five-time International Grand Prix Finals champion, found himself dancing with a tipsy man at an exclusive, well respected gala tailored for the best in the world. The music, which was long abandoned from the live orchestra, was a modern English pop song blaring from the pants pocket of the younger man. They circled one another, Viktor attempting to imitate moves he saw online and an old 50’s American film. A shout was heard and Viktor turned to see Yuuri creating makeshift horns with his thumb and forefinger, huffing and snorting. So naturally, the silver topped male whisked off his jacket to engage in the charade of bull and bullfighter. As Yuuri charged, Viktor swooped up his jacket and grabbed the other’s waist as he sped by. Their bodies swung and collided, eventually contorting to each other’s own whims of dips, swings, and dives. Their laughs melodically sang throughout the air, smiles genuine and muscles sore. As they posed, Viktor looked into the eyes of the inebriated skater and felt his heart twinge.

He’s so vulnerable, he thought. Vulnerable, yet strong. While only wanting to engage in the festivities with him, Viktor found himself wanting more. He wanted to spend more time with Yuuri Katsuki.

-... . / .... .. ... / -.-. --- .- -.-. .... / ...- .. -.- - --- .-.

 

The banquet was coming to a close at a stark 4:22 AM. Viktor was making his final goodbyes when the warm body of Katsuki slammed into him. Sometime between their dance and now, Yuuri’s pants have once again squirmed off his body. His tie, which was once loosely knotted around his neck, was now tightened against his perspiration slicked forehead. All traces of cologne have been worn down by alcohol and sweat and passion. His face was buried into the Russian’s chest, his lower body gyrating as if an insatiable desire to keep moving infected his body. A murmuring crowd formed around them, phones out and breaths held.

“Viktor, after this season ends, my family runs a hot spring resort, so please come,” he starts, words barely forming coherent sentences. “If I win this dance off, you’ll become my coach right?” He looks up, bespeckled eyes overflowing with ardor and tears, staring straight into Viktor’s mirroring own. He could feel the other’s heart beat five miles too fast and see it painted sloppily on his sleeve. 

Well, how could he say no to the One-Time Dance Off Grand Prix Banquet Champion?

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I wrote stuff but I cannot get the ending scene of Episode 10 out of my head. I had to get this out or it would drive me crazy!
> 
> I'm not great at writing romances and I don't read romances often. However, I did want an insight on what happened during the Gala and what was going through Viktor's mind.


End file.
